


Of the Day, Of the Night

by resonant_aura



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Love Triangle, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, Vax is maybe being very chaotic neutral here, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonant_aura/pseuds/resonant_aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men can be satisfied with only one lover. Vax'ildan is not one of those men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the Day, Of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All the people and places you recognize are the intellectual property of their respective creators--Liam O'Brien, Matt Mercer, Marisha Ray, and the other amazing members of Geek & Sundry’s fantastic webstream show Critical Role. 
> 
> Funny story--just before I started writing this I had Hozier's song "Take Me To Church" stuck in my head, just one line of it on repeat. But I warped some of the words: the line is actually "my church offers no absolutes/she tells me worship in the bedroom" but somehow I changed it to "my church offers no absolution/tells me worship in the bedroom". Then it was very easy for me to hop from a Vax torn apart by his guilt at possibly breaking hearts to a Vax who is guilty but has given up on being released from that guilt; he just loves where and when he can. This isn't good guy budding hero Vax; this is rogue who gets away with stuff Vax. Yikes.

The sun rises. There is light peeking grey and wan through the elaborate window, faint shadows of artistic coils and curls cast on the richly carpeted floor. Vax feels warm breath at his ear, is too warm beneath the heavy blankets. He slides out from the luxurious nest of the bed. He dons his clothes, his armor, his weapons and cloak. He wears plain black leather gloves, finely stitched and thin, no insignia of any gods here. He does not eat. He does not speak. He leaves the room.

This early in the morning the streets are all but abandoned; the people are in their homes, stirring from their beds, beginning their work. The bakers and masons and smiths are lighting the fires. The nobles and merchants are still at rest. The bards are still sleeping off the ale they’ve earned in the night.

The guards of Greyskull Keep are changing shift as Vax approaches the gate. He watches for a moment, then silently slips into the deep shadow, finding his own way in without alerting those who are awake.

The sun peers over the edge of the lowest buildings in Emon, liquid gold. He hears Laina yawning loudly in the kitchen as she prepares breakfast. He stops at his sister’s door and smiles to hear her quiet snoring mingled with the snuffling breaths of her bear. The other door he stops at is remarkably silent; he does nothing, and walks on.

In the warming light of early morning Vax removes his cloak and weapons and armor and clothes. He scrubs himself vigorously with icy water from a pitcher by the bed. He dries himself with an old shirt, rubbing hard enough to blush the skin, and waits until the light pools at his feet through the narrow windows. Then he dresses and comes down the stairs.

The table is rowdy and full; Grog has started a food fight with Scanlan, which the gnome wins handily with his magic. Vex is feeding Trinket. Percy and Jarett are deep in conversation, discussions of upgrades and materials and costs murmured beneath the chaos. Vax slides onto the bench beside Keyleth; like a flower turning toward the sun, she perks up, brightens, color flooding her cheeks.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, gently dragging his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Uhh—morning,” she stutters back, and hides a shyly brilliant smile.

They eat in peace. Vax taunts Grog and pulls his beard, which begets an interesting chase scene that involves several bookcases and a chandelier. Vex and Percy leave together at some point—a fact that Vax will note and tease her mercilessly for later. Grog grunts and heads out to the chapel of Sarenrae. Scanlan groans and totters off to the kitchen to procure “healing potions.” Vax finds Keyleth helping Laina gather the used dishes.

“Where to?” Vax asks.

Keyleth hums thoughtfully. “I was… going to garden?”

“Can I help?”

“Well, um, I guess so…”

“I would like to,” he says, ducking down to seek out her eyes. Her glance keeps darting towards him and then away, like a nervous bird. Her fingers knot themselves up near her breastbone, but when he cups them both in his hands they relax. “Please.”

“Well… All right.” She smiles at him, and his heart opens. “I’m pretty sure you can’t break anything that I couldn’t fix.”

They exit into the courtyard, a backdrop of stony grey lit from within by vivid colors—gold and vermillion and indigo and verdant green that sparkles with vitality. Vax fingers a velvety blue blossom as he says, “Where do we start?”

“I need to trim back the ivy some, it’s become too unruly for its own good—and the effervescents, they need a little encouragement. Everyone needs water and I should probably plant some of the seeds I found in the market and Laina said the vegetable garden was fine but I just want to make sure, some of the beans seemed a little unhappy…”

He stands back and listens, and spends happy hours handing her tools, fetching her pails, occasionally using a dagger as a spade because why not. She’s here, and she’s dazzling. When she reaches out to caress a soft fuzzy head of growth on a tall gangly plant, he’s there to gently intertwine his fingers with hers. When she holds her arms out, summoning a tiny raincloud to water the trees, he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close, rainwater slicking his hair and darkening hers to a magnificent auburn. When the clouds clear, leaving them dripping and water-logged, she turns and laughs, ripe afternoon sun glittering in her eyes, and he kisses them closed before he’s blinded by her beauty. It’s so easy to see the life in her.

The sun slides down, beyond the edges of the walls, beyond the edges of the earth. The light deepens from gold to burgundy to a luscious purple. Vox Machina’s wayward wanderers come home and sit at the table once more, swapping tales, recalling acquaintances. Scanlan tells them he met a succubus in his dream today and they all cackle at his bawdy tale, except for Keyleth who of course is deeply concerned for his welfare and checks his eyes and pulse and speech to make sure he is of sound mind. Vax fondly watches her ministrations and wonders if she notices Scanlan’s naughty wink.

The lanterns are lit. Percy sits in the kitchen reading and absently sharing an anecdote or two with Vex, who is combing Trinket’s fur. Grog is singing drinking songs with Scanlan and the off-duty guards. Vax helps his sister and waits, watching the darkness fall beyond the keep, gauging the wax that oozes from the candlebeds. Finally Grog emits an enormous yawn, signaling the end of the evening, and the intrepid adventurers troop back to their beds. Keyleth wanders up the stairs with her fingers loosely sliding along the balustrade, and he escorts her to her room quietly. She gives him a long, quiet look at the door.

“Good night, Vax,” she says.

“Good night, Kiki,” he replies. There is no hug or kiss or fond touch. She enters her room and shuts the door without looking back.

The lanterns in the keep are extinguished, replaced by candles for those who need the light. Vax does not. He briefly enters his room to fetch the plain, sleek black leather gloves. Leaving the keep the way he entered, silently and unseen with only his elvish sight to guide him, he makes his way through a familiar winding path of side alleys and rooftop gardens, half-lit by the colorful lights of night revelers. He grabs a leg of lamb from a platter neglected by a partygoer’s overworked chef and enjoys it on his journey.

His destination is lit by a single candle, not glowing orange but sky-blue.

He enters through heavy curtains and a colorful façade, waits for the tingling, buzzing enchantments set at the doorway to allow him passage, and then ducks around counters and tables and fanciful blown-glass displays. The air is rich with the scent of smoky incense and sweet, heady herbs, the glimmer of magic. It sinks into his skin, swirls through his lungs, gently fogs his head—but it’s welcome, a gentle embrace from a hospitable home. He reaches up to briefly twist his fingers through a set of wind chimes—they respond playfully, with the twinkling chime of metal and the sweet flutter of air pipes and the melodious drone of a horn. Walking through the beaded curtain, a clattering percussion accompaniment to the fading orchestra of the chimes, Vax knows what he’ll hear and mouths along with the deep, comforting voice: “Must you do that _every_ time?”

“It’s my calling card, dear heart,” Vax replies, crossing to the darkwood desk to tweak his lover’s ear. “How would you know I was here otherwise?”

“I can think of a few ways,” Gilmore replies, sending a dark look over his shoulder. “I could always set the door with a fireball spell instead of a detection one.”

“For little old me? I’m flattered.” The single blue candle emits a steady, unwavering light that sends a shiver down Vax’s spine. “Must you always use _that_ candle?”

“It’s quite effective and prevents eyestrain, which is something you come to appreciate at my age.”

“It’s creepy.”

Gilmore chuckles deep in his chest. Vax leans over and pinches the candle out.

The darkness is not quite complete. As there are shadows in the day, in the night there are flashes of light, sparkling reflections of a distant glow that flicker with fey color. Vax closes his eyes and shuts them out. He doesn’t need his eyes here. Neither of them do.

The hands at his neck do not make him jump, even if they set his heart to galloping. The lips that follow do not sap his strength, even if his legs give out.

He does not stand back. He does not hesitate. Vax peels off his gloves and leans in and gives as much as he takes, tongues twisting, hands seeking, and somehow Gilmore’s nimble fingers can shed the rogue’s equipment just as quickly as Vax can undo the fastenings of the wizard’s robe. Beneath warm silk lies warmer flesh, rough with hair where Vax’s is smoothed by scars, and Vax just lets his palms rest there over Gilmore’s gloriously living, beating heart. It’s so easy to feel the life in him.

Gilmore breaks their kiss, gentles the parting with two or three soft pecks, and laughs a little. “Vax,” Gilmore says softly, his voice rich and dark and so very very close, and Vax refuses to answer because he knows he’ll be breathless in comparison. It isn’t fair—but Vax has made this man breathless before and he absolutely intends to do so again.

Vax ducks down and presses a kiss to the hollow of Gilmore’s throat, to the wings of his collarbone, the points of his shoulders. He’s encouraged by the pleased hum, but not satisfied. He folds his fingers around the man’s biceps and backs him up one step, two. They both judder to a halt when Gilmore hits the edge of the desk with a small grunt. They hang in the moment, waiting.

And the moment is gone and there is only movement, sensation, the crest and fall of passion over and over and over again.

They use whatever is at hand for their pleasure. The desk. The chair. Vax specifically remembers hanging onto the strings of the bead curtain at some point, the hard glass facets cutting into his palms. The bed, of course. Eventually they lie, sated and lazily draped over one another, in the downy sheets of the enormous bed. Their breath evens and their bodies cool. The darkness enfolds them in a cocoon of illusion, the alluring thought that they are the only two beings in the universe. The sounds of nearby revelers have been muted by the sounds of their lovemaking, and now Gilmore’s bedroom is a quiet bubble of peace.

Vax rolls just enough in the bed that he can see the outlines of Gilmore’s face. He’s on the edge of sleep, his face relaxed with a bit of a smile still quirking his lip. Vax kisses that corner of a smile, stroking his hand over Gilmore’s hair to feel the line between dark and night. Hidden from sun and moon, Vax falls asleep in a spell woven from sweat and sighs and simple affection.

Once he wakes and finds himself securely tucked under the blankets where he had been sprawled across them before, his skin now warm and dry in their cloth shelter, and Gilmore’s arm is stretched beneath his head. He wakes again on his side with his arm draped over the other man’s waist, face buried in sweetly perfumed hair.

It is a wonderfully long night.

The sun rises. The familiar elegant shadows are scrawled on the floor. He dons his clothes, his armor, his weapons and cloak.

“You always leave,” a voice rough and husky with sleep mutters from behind him. Vax turns and looks at Gilmore, no longer impressively polished but delightfully rumpled, leaning up on one arm with his hair loose and pressed to one cheek where he slept on it. Vax feels a tender smile curl his mouth. He is humbled that he would ever be granted permission to see Gilmore like this.

“I always come back,” he replies.

Gilmore laughs just once, shakes his head. “That you do. And I am glad of it.”

Vax crosses to the bed and presses a swift kiss to his lover’s lips. “As am I.”

But the sun is rising.

He is always leaving someone—but he is always coming back, too.

“Good morning, Shaun,” he murmurs.

“Good morning, Vax’ildan,” Gilmore replies, watching him go.

Vax leaves the room and shuts the door without looking back.


End file.
